


Joining of Hands

by ehmazing



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Cultural Differences, F/M, Gen, Post-Canon, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 18:23:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15891519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehmazing/pseuds/ehmazing
Summary: If you're not breaking a couple of laws, is it really an Elric wedding?





	Joining of Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Many Chinese wedding customs, both modern and ancient, have been baked into this fic as well as several customs entirely of my own invention.
> 
> Without the inspiring tweets of @rybari and the editing help of @Izilen none of this would have been possible <33

_His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Yao Ling Zhu, Son of Heaven, Lord of Ten Thousand Years_  
_requests the pleasure of your company_  
_at the Marriage of his honored sister_

 _Her Imperial Highness the Seventeenth Princess Chang Mei Li_  
_with_  
_Mr. Alphonse Elric_

 _at the Imperial Summer Palace of Miran, Xing_  
_on Friday, the fifth of July, 1922_

—

For months, Al’s greatest fear had been that Ed wouldn’t be able to make it. It kept him up at night: nightmares of getting all the way to the tea ceremony only to look to the side and see a blank spot where his brother should be. Mei had placated him a thousand times that they would do anything to get him there, even change the date if need be, and though Al protested that the world couldn’t afford to revolve around his brother’s schedule, he was relieved beyond measure that she understood.

It was only when Ed stepped off the train, grinning ear to ear with a yawning Winry in tow, that Al realized the nightmare scenario was actually that he _would_ arrive—without the most important asset.

“So where,” Al said carefully, after hugging his brother and sister-in-law, “did you pack the gold?"

“Gold?” Winry’s brow, already dotted with sweat in the midsummer heat, creased in confusion.

“The gold. The ceremonial gold coins.” Al glanced at their luggage cart but could only see Ed’s travel bag and one trunk. “Eight chests of them. For the bride price.”

Winry looked at Ed. Ed looked at Winry. Both of them turned to Al.

“So,” Ed said slowly, “that wasn’t a joke? In your letter? You actually can’t marry Mei unless you have eight chests of gold?”

Al shook his head. Ed blinked.

“Al, you do know that we only own the shop and one flock, right? That I gave my leftover State Alchemist funds to Elicia? You were aware that we _do not_ have eight chests of gold lying around?”

“Brother—“ Al began, his stomach starting to churn queasily, “Brother if I can’t pay the bride price we can’t get married at all, it’s the biggest part of the ceremony—"

With her uncanny ability to take charge in a crisis, Winry threaded one arm through Al’s elbow and turned them around, setting a brisk pace down the platform.

“Okay. Don’t worry,” she commanded. “You _are_ going to get married, Al. We still have a few days left. We just have to think of some other way to get gold!” She ordered over her shoulder, “Don’t stand there gawking, Ed! Get the luggage!”

The sound of clattering wheels and hurried footsteps brought Ed in step with them. He punched Al’s other shoulder lightly, a smile beginning to grow back over his initial shock.

“Yeah, she’s right,” he said. “Don’t worry, Al, we’ll take care of it. This is an Elric wedding too, and now your Elric wedding experts have arrived! Let your big brother handle this one."

Al nodded and found he couldn’t help but smile back, despite still feeling a little sick. The worst hadn’t happened; his brother was here. Everything had to turn out alright.

Right?

 

—

_Reply is requested to:_

_Imperial Invitations Secretary Li Zhuhan_  
_Office of the Imperial Household_  
_Grand Palace of Jingshi, Xing_

_Note: Foreign guests should expect mail delays of 14-21 days_

—

Mei spent most of her engagement counting things: golden bowls, waiters, baskets of flower petals. Al wanted a small wedding, so she’d spent months trimming things down: twenty white horses to ten, fifty roast pigs to thirty, other cuts here and there in the number of palanquins and servants and doves, but she was still a princess and still expected to put on a show. They were expecting five hundred guests, not counting the crowds that would doubtlessly come to watch outside.

But the Imperial Invitations Secretary had been laid up with a bad case of pneumonia all spring, so she had the RSVPs sent to her own quarters and took stock of them herself. Her Amestrian was still in fairly good shape, but trying to read the handwriting of dozens of foreign diplomats was enough to convince her that maybe she’d slipped into illiteracy.

“Does this say ‘General Howe’ or “General Neuve?’” She brandished the card underneath her brother’s nose. He took it and squinted intently at it for a moment before his eyes lit up, triumphant.

“I have no idea!” he declared happily. “I can’t read their alphabet!”

Mei slapped the Emperor of Xing on the elbow.

“Does it actually matter?” he huffed, lightly pulling her ear in retaliation. “All of them look the same. The only Amestrians we really need to pay attention to are the Fuhrer, Mustang, and your soon-to-be in-laws. The nobles can bother with the rest.”

“It matters because I’m having place cards made so they know where to sit at the banquet,” Mei admonished. “None of them have ever been to a Xingese wedding before, let alone a royal one—they’ll be confused! I don’t want to earn bad luck because some old man eats before the wine is served!”

Her brother rolled his eyes, kicking his feet up onto the edge of her writing desk.

“You’re already stewing in bad luck from marrying a foreigner to begin with,” he teased. “The first non-Xingese noble in over one thousand years! This wedding may bring the whole empire crashing down, and I’ll be to blame for letting you marry without a matchmaker.”

“Alphonse is not bad luck,” Mei insisted. “He’s performed all of the rituals properly and complied with all of the traditions.” She looked up to see Ling visibly trying not to laugh. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said quickly. “You’re right: he’s done every ritual so far, and then some. I just hope he can withstand the procession. He has to pass through your family blocking the path.”

“So? Every groom gets through the procession. Blocking the path is just ceremonial, you know.” Mei narrowed her eyes. “Unless you’ve changed something about—”

“My dear sister, I have changed nothing whatsoever about your wedding ceremony.” Ling crossed his arms behind his head and failed to look innocent. “I have only the utmost respect for our traditions! Even if they should dictate I make smalltalk with General Howe or Neuve or whatever.”

“I should hope so,” Mei threatened, putting up one more glare before returning to the card. “Wait—I think it might be ‘Hewe.’”

 

— 

_Dress: Court robes, uniform, or evening wear_

—

If asked, Ed would move heaven and earth for his brother. He’d go any distance, weather any storm. He’d leave his toddlers—one in his clingy phase, the other in her teething phase—in the hands of Granny for two weeks, close the shop and pay the neighbor’s son to let the sheep out, take a god-awful train ride across hundreds of miles of scorching desert, learn a few paltry sentences of Xingese that Winry would mock for all ten hours of the aforementioned train ride, and eat whatever odd-looking fish was placed in front of him, all for the sake of Al’s happiness.

For Al, he would also break into the other guests’ quarters and go through all of their pockets for whatever gold-colored cash they had.

“You know, Fullmetal, I was warned about assassins, but I didn’t think I’d have to deal with common pickpockets in this country too.”

For Al, he would happily commit murder and hide Mustang’s body.

“You don’t have to worry about pickpockets because you’re carrying nothing but lint,” Ed grunted, tossing Mustang’s coat aside as though he expected to be caught red-handed rifling through someone’s suitcase, and Mustang was the rude one for interrupting. Unfortunately he lost some of that bravado to gagging when he realized Mustang was most definitely in a bathrobe, and it was most definitely thin. “What’s wrong with you—General of Eastern Command and you don’t have two pennies to rub together? What the hell are you spending all that research money on?”

“Dogfood,” Mustang answered, as if that were a normal response. “What are you trying to rob me for anyway? Your brother is about to share accounts with the Imperial Treasury; shouldn’t you be asking him for cash instead?”

Ed straightened up from his crouch on the floor. _Anything for Al,_ he told himself, and tried to school his expression into something pitiful.

“Well, Al might not see any of that money if I don’t settle this first.” He cleared his throat, looking down. “You see, there’s a bit of an issue with the bride price…”

“A bride price? Interesting,” Mustang said. He took a seat on one of the low chairs the Xingese preferred, and Ed valiantly fought down the taste of bile as he was treated to a view of more of Mustang’s bare legs than he ever wanted to see. Ever. “I didn’t know they still practiced that custom here. My Xingese tutor has certainly never mentioned it.”

“Well, Al says most of the royal family’s traditions are ancient, so who knows,” Ed shrugged. “I just know that if I can’t fill eight chests with gold by Friday morning, there might not be a wedding to attend. So, uh, you know I hate to ask for favors, but—” he cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck. _C’mon, General Jerkoff, I know you’re still a wuss._ “Do you think you could help me out? For Al’s sake? It’s a ridiculous amount of money but I can’t turn him down. It’s not his fault that he fell for a princess, of all people.”

Mustang, the bastard, was inscrutable. But after a moment he sighed and got to his feet, removing a wallet from a small compartment in the suitcase Ed had missed entirely.

“I am giving you exactly one ten-thousand-cenz bill,” he said firmly, “and nothing more. Your brother’s wedding gift is already counted out and sealed in an envelope and you’d better not go looking for it, because Major Hawkeye is much less forgiving of intruders than I am.” He slapped the bill into Ed’s palm. “If this ceremony falls through, I am holding you personally responsible for the diplomatic consequences of ruining the most important wedding of the century.”

“Thanks General, you have no idea how much—hey, ‘wedding of the century’?! What about mine?!” Mustang began pushing him towards the door. “And how much is ten thousand cenz worth here? Can I even exchange this? I can’t float a single paper bill in the bottom of the chest meant for gold!”

_“Jī bù zé shí.”_

“What?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Fullmetal,” Mustang said, and slammed the funny sideways door in Ed’s face. Typical.

Ed pocketed the bill and turned to the rest of hallway, identical paper-covered doors lined from end to end. _Now then,_ he thought, rubbing his hands together, _Colonel Armstrong’s room has gotta be here somewhere!_ At least he was already used to seeing Armstrong in much less than a bathrobe.

 

—

_Please specify the number of guests attending, including spouse and/or children_

—

Lan Fan had a headache. The presence of so many foreigners in the Summer Palace—the smallest imperial residence, with only two thousand rooms—produced an endless drone, accents and languages and barking Amestrian laughs blending together like a massive beehive swarming in her ears. She fully understood the Seventeenth Princess’ desire for a small celebration: had they held a full royal ceremony, Lan Fan might have gone mad before they even got the bride into her palanquin.

There were a few familiar faces, at least: Mrs. and Mr. Curtis, who cornered her to ask detailed questions about regional varieties of salted pork; General Armstrong, who complained at length about the weather but did not seem to be sweating; and Major Hawkeye, who thankfully acknowledged her presence with a nod and no further talk.

During the welcoming dinner the night before the wedding, Major Hawkeye looked like she was dealing with a headache, too. Lan Fan left her favorite vantage point from the rafters to stand by her in the corner of the room. Though Lan Fan remained in the shadows, Major Hawkeye’s head turned just slightly when she dropped to the ground, knowing she was there.

“Hello,” Lan Fan said.

“Hello.” Major Hawkeye spoke to her without turning around, as one who knew the proper way to engage a bodyguard would. “So is this what all royal weddings are like? We don’t have any nobility in Amestris for me to compare to.”

“No. If she were marrying a noble, the Seventeenth Princess would host one thousand guests or more at the Grand Palace, which is much larger than this one. Her banquet would be five days too, and then they would have another welcoming banquet at the bride’s family home after. And that is only for a princess’ wedding; when the Emperor takes his first wife, the wedding banquet will be at least eight days, and his other wives will have the same. There will also be elephants.”

Major Hawkeye was quiet for a moment, then said, “Forgive me, but that sounds dreadful.”

“It is tradition.” Lan Fan observed the Emperor as he fought against a yawn while talking to the short, spectacled Fuhrer of Amestris. “It is also dreadful.”

“Alphonse is holding up better than I expected, though.” Lan Fan followed Major Hawkeye’s gaze to the groom, currently engaged in conversation with several Xingese scholars. He looked like he had slept little, but whenever the Seventeenth Princess flitted by with the teapot to refill his cup his eyes lit up, his shoulders lost their tension. He murmured his thanks to her in Xingese—even Lan Fan was impressed with the improvement to his accent—and kept daring glances at her when he thought no one was watching. “I’m glad to see him so happy. He deserves to be.”

“He is a good man,” Lan Fan agreed. “The Emperor would not have agreed to the marriage if he weren’t. I only hope he is prepared for the procession.”

“What happens during the procession?”

“The bride’s family is supposed to stop the groom from meeting her, by ways of playful stunts and tricks, and he must best them to reach her palanquin. The Seventeenth Princess is the first of his siblings to be married during his reign, so His Imperial Majesty has been very… _enthusiastic_ about planning the obstacles Alphonse will face.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be too hard,” Major Hawkeye chuckled. “He did win first place in the one-legged race at Edward and Winry’s reception.”

“I suppose so. Edward’s wedding—is that what all Amestrian weddings are like?”

“Definitely not.” Major Hawkeye looked briefly like she was reliving a very bad memory. “I’ve never had that much bathtub mead in my life, and doubt I ever will again.”

They stood watching the dinner together in silence for a while, tracking the servers and the wait staff, the blue-suited officers and black-robed scholars, the bejeweled nobles and spartan politicians. The Amestrians gave their plates questioning glances on occasion, but they still ate. The princes and princesses sipped imported wine and examined the flashes of automail with interest and delight. General Mustang had attracted a flock of Imperial Consorts, who were giggling and twirling strands of greying hair like schoolgirls as he recounted a few lines of Xingese poetry. It was an odd scene, seeing so many different people mashed together, but a happy one. Major Hawkeye turned her head a little to the side, her mouth curved in a nearly-invisible smile.

“Thank you for having us,” she said, even though Lan Fan was not responsible for inviting her, nor had any part in the wedding planning.

“Thank you for being here,” Lan Fan found herself replying, and then the Imperial Opera Troupe arrived to perform for the dinner guests, and with a mutual frightened glance they both decided to take a post decidedly further away from the new source of screeching noise.

 

—

_The bridal procession will begin promptly at noon._

—

“Your Imperial Majesty.” Lan Fan stepped out of the shadows, her arm gleaming in the lamplight. “Lady Chang begs the honor of your presence.”

“Of course,” Ling replied, rising from his seat. The Zhao lords bowed as he stood, but the ends of their mustaches twitched in barely-restrained frowns. Ling tried not to laugh; so many of the old nobles despised him, yet still had the wherewithal to be insulted if they were denied his presence. The rest of the room joined the bow as he followed Lan Fan out of the scholars’ hall, winding further and further through the palace until he was at the entrance to the women’s quarters.

“My son,” Lady Chang Li Hua greeted him, waiting outside the grand door to the princesses’ wing. Like her daughter, she was small and round-cheeked and prone to smiling. Though his father had passed nearly five years ago, she still wore her braids pinned up in a married woman’s style. All of his father’s wives called their rival half-children “son” and “daughter,” but Lady Chang always had a softness in her eyes when she said it, more than even his own birth mother. The royals of the smaller clans had embraced him warmly upon his ascent; he had asked the calligrapher specifically to title Mei his sister on the invitation, only a small gesture to return such a great affection from his distant family. “We seem to have a problem with the bridal procession.”

“Oh?” Ling frowned. “Everyone’s lined up outside, aren’t they? I thought we were just waiting for the bride.”

“That’s the problem.” Lady Chang looked down, her cheeks flushing. “My daughter refuses to enter the palanquin.”

Somehow, Mei had clambered her way—in her red wedding gown and silk slippers, no less—to the highest branch of the plum tree outside her bedroom window. Ling swore as a thin branch snapped underneath his foot and hiked his robe higher around his waist.

“The bride is supposed to cry _inside,”_ he called up to her, “with her mother!”

“I did cry!” Mei snapped back, her abominable little panda hissing in agreement. “And then I couldn’t stop! So now you have to cancel the wedding, and everyone has to go home, and I have to shave my head and enter a convent for the rest of my life!’

One of Ling’s rings caused his hand to slip, so he threw it off into the grass—let some lucky gardener have a boon in the morning. When he reached her branch, he found his sister had not lied about crying; streaks of kohl and rouge ran down her face, a smear of red rubbed across her mouth.

“You didn’t cheat on him, did you?” he asked, half-joking, half-fearful that the joke was right. But the fury in Mei’s eyes thankfully put that notion to rest at once. “Alright, I’m sorry, you didn’t! Then why such cold feet? You seemed fit to burst with love just this morning!”

“I don’t know,” Mei whimpered, curling her knees to her chest. The panda tried to wriggle between her chin and shoulder, mewling. “I do love him! More than anything in the world! I want to marry him and live together and have a garden and a library and a big straw basket with silk pillows for the cats and maybe kids, maybe, someday, and a bed with a blue silk canopy and a pond with yellow koi, not orange, and we’ll have tea every morning on the veranda in spring and by the stove in winter and we’ll take the train to visit—”

“Okay, okay, yes, you love him, I believe you. So there must be some other thing bothering you.”

Mei looked away. Ling glared.

“Seventeenth Princess,” he said, warning, “as Son of Heaven, Lord of Ten Thousand Years, Father of Xing, Light of the Gods, and Bearer of the Imperial Name, I order you to tell me what has upset you.”

Mei bit her lip, the rouge staining her teeth. “Fine,” she sighed. “It’s the wedding itself.”

Ling frowned. “The wedding?”

“I mean, don’t you think it’s all—” Mei waved her hands, her jade bangles clanking together, her red sleeves flapping “—a little much? I know we’re cutting back already, but do we really need so many horses and doves? Does the entire Imperial Circus need to come to the banquet?” She leaned her head against the trunk of the plum tree, a few leaves catching in her stiffly-coiffed hair. “I guess I’m stuck comparing us to Edward and Winry. Amestrian weddings are so simple, so easy! They didn’t need anything fancy to get married.”

“They certainly didn’t,” Ling agreed drily. He had to get the Imperial Physician to remove more than a dozen splinters from his feet after dancing all night in that cursed barn. “But look: it’s not about how simple or fancy you celebrate. It’s about you and Al. Take away the circus and the doves and the palace, and what is a wedding? A bride going to meet her groom, and their families sitting down for a meal together.” He offered Mei a handkerchief and motioned for her to wipe her tear-stained face. “Your families just happen to be two whole countries capitalizing on a great opportunity for an alliance and a big party.”

Mei sniffed into the handkerchief, but when she emerged her tears were dry. “I guess,” she said softly.

“And you still want to marry Al despite that, right?”

“I do.”

“And you have to get out of this tree and into your palanquin to do that, right?”

“I know,” Mei sighed. “Listen…Older Brother…can you just do me one favor?”

She only called him that when she wanted something, Ling knew. But Mei was still round-cheeked and tiny and looked more miserable than any bride should be, so he also knew he was a sucker for it.

“Anything for you, Little Sister,” he vowed.

“Can you go easy on him? During the procession obstacles? It’s just—Al has gone through so many real ones for me already. I just want the ceremony over quickly, so I can be with him.”

 _Damn._ “I’ll cut it down to half, just like you’ve done with the rest,” Ling promised. Mei’s smile was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, so he couldn’t bear to feel too put-out about his best plans being ruined.

When they stepped back inside, Lady Chang and the other women swarmed around Mei at once to fix her hair and makeup again, and when she was pronounced ready, Ling squatted down for her to clamber onto his back as the band began the wedding march.

“Never thought I would be carrying my worst enemy to her palanquin,” he joked, poking the pad of her foot. Mei dug her bony knees into his sides in return.

“Never thought I would have to be carried by such a meddling older brother,” she shot back, and when he set her down on the golden chair she matched him grin for grin.

With the bridal procession officially underway, he summoned Lan Fan to his side, and quietly told her to call off the shark tank and the spinning blades.

 

—

_In lieu of gifts, the couple requests donations be made to:_

_Trisha Elric Girls’ Home and School_  
_Chang’e Province, Xing_

—

Winry looked out the window and fear set in.

“That’s the fireworks,” she yelled as she hurried to the room where Ed and Al had hauled the chests. “She’s on the way! We have thirty minutes at most!”

All three of them peered over the mouth of the single chest they’d manage to fill. The gold coins hardly covered the bottom.

“Shit,” Al said, rolling the wide sleeves of his ceremonial robe over his elbows and then down again, pacing back and forth. “Shit, shit, _shit.”_

Ed clearly felt similar, raking both hands through his hair, his ponytail gone wild. “What’s wrong with this country?!” he snarled. “Demanding a bride price like Mei is some commodity?! Bullshit!”

“Brother, you can’t say that, I told you it’s an ancient Xingese custom—”

“Well then it was bullshit in ancient times, too!”

“Both of you shut up and focus!” Winry snapped. “We don’t have the gold, so how do we make it look like we do? Can we pad the bottom of the first chest, put the gold at the top, and leave the other chests closed?”

Al shook his head miserably. “Ling said we have to open all eight, and besides, the servants are carrying them; they’ll notice if seven are empty and one is only partially full.”

“Can we make something else look like gold, then?” Winry pressed. “Rocks? Wood chips? Buttons?” She whirled on Ed, furious. “What are you mumbling about?!”

“Xingese custom,” her husband was repeating under his breath, rubbing his chin with one hand. “An ancient Xingese custom…a country’s custom…a national law…”

Suddenly his head snapped up. Without another word Ed ran to the door and slammed it closed, and then ran about the room doing the same to all the windows.

“Brother!” Al cried helplessly. “We can’t lock them out, that only looks worse!”

“Al,” Ed hissed, gripping his brother by the shoulders, “what are the three laws of Amestrian alchemy?”

“What?” Al looked stricken. “I don’t see what that has to do with—” His eyes grew wide as saucers. “Oh. _Oh.”_

Ed’s face had taken on a manic grin. “Oh yeah.”

“‘Oh yeah’ _what?”_ Winry demanded, stamping her foot. It didn’t make much of an impact in silk Xingese socks, but it was the principle of the gesture that mattered. “Just because I’m an Elric now doesn’t mean I can read your minds!”

“Amestrian law,” Al said slowly, “forbids an alchemist from creating gold.”

“And we,” Ed finished, “are not in Amestris at the moment.”

Winry couldn’t help her voice rising in pitch as she replied, “So we could have solved this with alchemy _this entire time—”_ but of course Ed and Al were already long gone.

“The koi pond—”

“—I’ll bring the chests, you have to transmute—”

“—They might not have all the details of real coins, I don’t know if I can be that exact in such a short time—”

“—Can handle it if they get here early—”

“—Make sure the fish are okay—”

 _This,_ Winry thought, _is what I get for marrying a chronic procrastinator,_ as Al flung the door open again and sped down the hall, his robes flying around him. Ed in turn began shimmying out the window that overlooked one of the many small gardens of the Summer Palace, and only seemed to remember her when he was stuck halfway through.

“Winry,” he said, “honey, light of my life, could you—”

“Suck in your gut,” Winry griped, taking a stance so she could get a better angle to shove at his legs. “You should be glad we’re already married, because there’s no way I would accept you after this mess. I told you that letter wasn’t a joke, but nooo, ‘why would there be a bride price, Winry, he’s clearly kidding!’ See what happens when you don’t listen to me?”

“I do see, and I love you so much,” Ed professed, cowed and looking a little purple as his lower half got stuck on the ledge. “I’m never not listening to you ever again.”

“Good.” Winry rolled up her sleeves and braced herself for the final push. “Now I’m counting to three, and on three, you’re gonna roll out and go help Al break the law in the name of love, alright? One, two, _three—”_

 

—

_Foreign guests will be provided with translators during the ceremony if needed_

—

Grumman, the privileged old coot, was the only one who got a chair with a cushion. Roy, Armstrong, Barrett, and Teghan were left with the squeakiest, most rickety pieces of furniture possible. It was bad enough that he wasn’t allowed to deviate from Xing’s strict hierarchical seating chart, worse that the highest officials had to suffer the front row in direct sunlight.

Well, at least he, Barrett, and Teghan were suffering. Armstrong had only grunted, “Hot today, isn’t it?” as she took her seat in the foreign officials’ box and hadn’t moved a muscle or made a sound since. Roy wondered if her winter coat was some kind of intimidation tactic against himself and the two generals of Southern and Western Command; if so, it was working. He hadn’t felt this hot since ‘16, and looking at Armstrong swaddled in wool and sheepskin in July made his own uniform feel twice as suffocating.

“Ah, here we are!” Grumman cried, peering through his binoculars. “The bride has finally reached the front door!”

Mei Chang’s palanquin, bedecked in reams of gold-trimmed red silk and flowers, was lowered onto the red carpet by her gold-suited servants. She was still at a fair distance from the gate of the Summer Palace where Alphonse and his family were staying, but the rest of her retinue lowered their palanquins as well. The master of ceremonies bowed to the gate guards, unrolled a large tasseled scroll, and began to speak.

“The Chang family brings their daughter, Mei Li, to the home of her groom. We humbly beg the Elric family to receive their bride and daughter-in-law,” First Lieutenant Ross translated for the Fuhrer and his generals. Roy made sure to look at her and nod on occasion, but the brass didn’t know that Ross had already been giving him Xingese lessons every Tuesday for the last four years. He was still far from fluent, and every other word here was some antique jargon that wasn’t in his vocabulary books, but Roy was still pleased that he could follow along better than he expected.

Sort of. He started losing track after Alphonse made his appearance, backed by another gold-suited servant troop carrying eight massive wooden chests. They laid them in front of the bridal party and lifted the lids to reveal mountains of gold coins inside. Alphonse bowed to the master of ceremonies and muttered something Roy didn’t catch, while Fullmetal and Dr. Rockbell stood to the side, looking nervous.

Ross frowned. “There’s something going on about a bride price? They’re saying that, uh…” She beckoned the translator from the next box over to confer briefly, the two of them whispering and shooting glances at the action below. “Sorry, sirs—they’re explaining now to Mr. Elric that there’s no bride price law anymore, and I don’t know what meaning this has in the wedding ceremony plan I studied, if any.”

General Barrett snorted and mopped his wrinkled brow with an already-damp handkerchief. “So what, is this the whole thing? Haggling over the girl for gold? Looks like Elric’s got more than enough for one scrawny princess.”

Armstrong’s voice was so cold Roy could’ve sworn her breath fogged as she replied, “That girl could buy you with a five-cenz piece, Barrett. Her funding secured construction of the Eastern Continental Railroad and its maintenance for the next decade. If anyone’s going to be haggling at this wedding, it’ll be for Alphonse Elric’s right to kiss her shoes.”

Barrett’s chair croaked weakly as he squirmed in place, handkerchief practically dripping.

Fullmetal entered the fray, and Alphonse had to alternate between translating his brother’s demands and trying to get in a few words himself. More chairs creaked in the audience as the argument dragged on, the translators indecisive over whether any of this was worth repeating or not. Roy was about to suggest finding some other royal official to sort this out before anyone suffered from heatstroke, when a horn call and a page on a galloping white horse announced the arrival of His Imperial Majesty.

While everyone was busy dropping to the ground in their bows, the Emperor trotted in on his own horse, looking harried.

“Sheesh, Al, I really underestimated your dedication to all this!” he called, which Roy was glad Ross chose not to translate. “Uh, how many did I say, nine? Eight? Eight chests, right, of course!” The Emperor brandished his arm at the gold in a fanciful motion, declaring quickly, “The Chang family accepts the bride price of eight chests of gold! Let’s just skip to the obstacles, everything’s already in place!”

“The bride price has been accepted,” Ross told the generals, her eyebrows rising. “And Mr. Elric will now ceremonially win his bride by passing through obstacles prepared by the Chang family. First, her mother has laid stones on the ground he must step on, to symbolize stepping into a new household…”

Roy loosened his collar and rubbed his sore neck as the ceremony continued. When he’d received the wedding invitation months ago, he couldn’t help but feel a small pang in his heart. He knew nothing of his birth mother’s family or their particular customs. Her name had been changed by Immigration, so he didn’t even know which clan she’d belonged to. Building the Eastern Continental Railroad, learning the language, visiting on official business a handful of times—it all brought him in contact with Xing but still never made him feel like he belonged. Alphonse, now playfully dodging a giggling group of Mei’s cousins, already knew more about having a Xingese family than Roy ever would.

“Uh, Fuhrer, I do apologize,” Ross said, staring bewildered at the last obstacle before Al reached the bridal palanquin. “I don’t know what this test is called or what it symbolizes. What the master of ceremonies is saying doesn’t make any sense.”

Grumman frowned, peering through his binoculars at the enormous brown hoop a few servants were raising on a pole from the ground. “Then what is he saying?”

“‘The groom will now leap through a ring of fire.’”

Even Armstrong flinched when one of the servants struck a flint and set the hoop ablaze. The Emperor yelped. Fullmetal looked ready to faint. Dr. Rockbell looked ready to catch him if so.

Maybe Roy was wrong. Maybe having a Xingese family wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

 _“What the fuck,”_ yelled Fullmetal, in loud, plain Amestrian, _“are you trying to do to my brother!”_ At his quick recovery, Dr. Rockbell switched from preparing for a fall to preparing to stop a fistfight between her husband and the Emperor of Xing, who was backing away but not looking entirely sorry.

“I forgot about that one!” he pleaded, using Dr. Rockbell as a human shield. “Look, he doesn’t have to do it, I’ll just send for water and then we’ll proceed—”

“What,” Teghan cried, startling Roy away from the action, “is he doing?!”

While his old and new families argued, Alphonse Elric bent down, tied up his ceremonial robes out of the way of his legs, jumped up and down a few times to loosen up, and then sprinted towards the ring of the fire.

He cleared it in a single bound.

Cacophony ensued. The crowd roared with applause, the band struck up again, the pages’ horns blew, the Chang family broke into cheers and laughter. Alphonse quickly patted out a few smoking holes on his sleeves and then jogged to the bridal palanquin, disappearing behind the red curtain with a huge grin on his face. The golden servants took their places and with a smooth lift, the procession was on its way into the Summer Palace for the next ceremony. Fullmetal, Dr. Rockbell, and Emperor Ling were frozen in place, their mouths hanging open.

Roy raised his hands to clap, but then noticed a more pressing matter.

“Sir,” he said, turning to Grumman, “permission to leave the box and deal with a situation on the ground? I believe that flaming hoop is about to roll into the fireworks stand.”

Grumman sighed, setting his binoculars down. “Very well, permission granted,” he said. “But be quick about it. This is the best wedding I’ve ever attended, and I don’t want to miss a thing.”

 

—

_Banquet to follow_

—

Using the second-floor balcony as a lookout was not as ideal as her first position, but Riza made due. She poured herself another cup of rice liquor—she still wasn’t sure if she liked it, but she certainly didn’t hate it—and rubbed her eyes, fighting back a yawn. From up here she could see the Imperial Gardeners preparing floating lanterns, a few guests feeding crumbs to the giant fish in the fountain, the unmistakable gleaming top of Colonel Armstrong’s head as he demonstrated his family’s skill at playing the harp. No signs of trouble. Yet.

“You know, Major, they say a watched pot never boils. If you’re looking out for Xingese assassins day and night, they’ll never show up.”

“So you’re suggesting I call off all security measures and leave things to chance, sir? In a country where, on average, every official receives four death threats before the week is out?” She didn’t bother to turn around to see who’d found her. “You’d prefer to rely on your history of luck, General, in the event of an attack at the largest gathering of international VIPs in the last decade?”

“I’d prefer you admit you did not sleep at all on the train ride over, and it has made you extraordinarily cranky.” A plate was set next to her elbow. “You could also admit you skipped nine of the ten courses.”

Her treacherous stomach growled in reply.

“I am not cranky,” she mumbled, after chasing two sweet buns with more liquor. “It’s not my fault the sun rises three hours earlier here than it should.”

“I’m afraid that’s how time zones work, Major.” The General examined her bottle, whistling in awe as he read the label. “They’re not serving this brand downstairs; even the barrels would be worth their weight in gold. Where did you pick this up?”

“It was a gift.” Riza held out her hand and waited until the General rolled his eyes and passed her another stash of desserts before trading him the cup. “From the bride.”

“Awfully generous of her. Then again, I’ve heard that later, the Emperor may be giving away ruby-studded dinner sets as wedding favors.” They spent a few minutes trading the cup back and forth, the liquor warming Riza’s throat. The lights from the banquet hall flickered like stars on the surface of the fountain, the fish darting around the reflection of the full moon on the water. “Speaking of the bride, have you seen the happy couple lately? They’re supposed to start lighting the lanterns soon, and Fullmetal has probably gotten lost himself trying to find them in this place.”

Riza poured him another cup. “Well, sir…I may or may not have changed posts to give them an escape route over the roof.”

The General raised one eyebrow, then the cup. “And this?”

“May or may not have been a bribe to persuade me to do so.”

He shook his head. “That’s very poor form, Major.”

“In my defense, sir, they were very persistent. And I didn’t think I could refuse orders from a princess and her consort. It could be seen as a cultural offense.”

The General hummed. “I suppose not. I’ve been rather paranoid myself about causing offense during this whole affair. Though if Fullmetal is now the Emperor’s brother-in-law, it’s a miracle we’re not already at war.” He stood up, stretching his arms. “However, you’re still not off the hook for taking a bribe—on duty, no less!—so I’m afraid I have to penalize you. Stand for orders.”

Riza gave him the darkest glare she could muster as she set aside her rifle and stood, but it was probably ruined when she wobbled. She had a sinking feeling that perhaps Xing’s top-shelf rice liquor was no better than Resembool’s home-brewed hooch.

“Major Hawkeye, you are hereby ordered to leave this post. You will go downstairs, have a chat with Dr. Rockbell, eat something of substance, and light at least one lantern before the closing fireworks. At no point will you avoid having fun, or there will be serious consequences once we cross the border again.” The General could hardly hide his smugness. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” She clicked her heels once. “And if Xingese assassins take you out tonight, sir, it’ll be on your head.”

“The Xingese assassins can do whatever they like so long as I get my ruby dinner set first.” His elbow bumped into hers lightly as they left the balcony. “And Major, while you’re having your designated wedding fun, make sure not to lose your shoes this time.”

“You lost your shoes too, _and_ your coat,” Riza retorted, letting her arm swing a little further in order to brush his again. “It’s probably still lying in some Resembool corn field.”

“I may lose my coat again; it’s ungodly hot in that banquet hall. I plan on retreating as soon as I’ve paid my compliments to the rest of the Imperial Consorts.” He ducked behind one of the pillars on the stairs and with a clap, their bottle was hidden behind a new panel in the wall. “I’ve heard the palace lake is nice. Breezy. Secluded.” Their shoulders brushed once before they rounded the corner. “Unless you think assassins are already lying in wait for me there.”

“I don’t know, sir.” She waved to Winry, who started in their direction with a smile on her face and her hands full of paper lanterns. “I would have to check thoroughly first before I approve.”

“Then I suppose I’ll see you eighteen Imperial Consorts later,” the General said, grinning as he took his leave.

"Hi," Winry said, unloading her paper lanterns into Riza's arms. "Have you seen Al and Mei by any chance? They're supposed to light the first one, but Ling says if they don't show up in five minutes he'll just do it himself, because the Emperor is immune to curses." She shook her head. "I still don't know which parts of this wedding are real and which ones he's making up on the go just to annoy Ed."

"I have no idea where they could be," Riza answered, which wasn't actually a lie.

"Guess we're all getting cursed, then!" Winry said, taking her arm, and together they hurried to the moonlit garden where everyone was waiting.

 

—

_Honored Guest,_

_We humbly thank you for the honor of your presence at our wedding._

_We are happy you could share in the joy of our union and wish to express our feeble gratitude—_

 

"Wrong character," Mei said, plucking the brush out of his hand. "Definitely the wrong character."

"That's not 'heartfelt?'" Al frowned, flipping through his dictionary again. "With the stroke through the middle?"

"Through the middle, but vertical." Mei wrote the correct word on the corner of the page. "When it's horizontal it means 'aging.'"

Al balled up the thank-you note and tossed it across the room with the other failed drafts. He looked at the piles of red envelopes—the third sack was already sagging and threatening to spill—and sighed. "At this rate, we'll be married ten years before we're through with only my side of the family."

Mei leaned over to kiss him, smudging ink on his nose with the pad of her finger. "Then I look forward to the next ten years, Mr. Elric."

"Glad to hear it, Your Imperial Highness," Al laughed, and ruined six more sheets of paper trying to smudge her back. 

**Author's Note:**

> I do not speak or write Mandarin, so please forgive any failures on behalf of my harried language research!  
> Roy's idiom is 饥不择食  
> The characters Al mixes up are 衰 and 衷


End file.
